


Make and Mend

by littlerhymes



Category: My Beautiful Laundrette (1985)
Genre: M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving in together is Omar’s idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make and Mend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonelywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta-reader, SQ (proteinscollide)!

Moving in together is Omar's idea, as most of them are. He suggests it late on a Monday night when business is finally slow enough that they can take a break, shut up shop, and close the door to the back room.

There's a vacant flat over their second laundrette, owned by Zaki; it has two bedrooms, a leaky roof and when trucks rumble past, the walls shake. Omar thinks it will be perfect. 

He's sneaky enough to say it when Johnny is breathless and just about ready to say 'yes' to anything, but Johnny still hesitates. It's not because he doesn't want it - they're both sick of sneaking time together after work hours, or fumbling in the back seat of Omar's car - but because of what people will say. Not for himself, so much, but there's all of Omar's family to think about.

"You're being too paranoid," Omar says confidently. He presses a kiss to Johnny's neck, another to his collarbone. "We'll tell them we want to keep a close eye on the business and one of us needs to be on premises at all times." Another kiss. "And we'll be saving money - that will make Uncle happy. He likes to think I get my business smarts from him."

"Shut up about your uncle," Johnny says, impatient. Omar obliges.

It's not the end of the conversation, naturally, and a few weeks later Johnny is helping Omar manouevre a bookshelf up the flight of narrow stairs to their new home, swearing under his breath when he scrapes his hand against a doorway. Most of the furniture is Omar's. Johnny doesn't have much more than his clothes, a box of records, some odds and ends for the kitchen.

The only big thing he really contributes is the mattress: a double, new and well-sprung. They both collapse on it, dusty and dishevelled at the end of the move. No bedframe, yet - their feet and legs sprawl on the threadbare carpet. Johnny turns his head and watches Omar watching him, less than an arms' length away. He rolls over, on top of Omar, who huffs out a laugh and tries, not very hard, to push him away. "You're all sweaty."

"So are you," Johnny points out, and pushes his face into the space between Omar's neck and shoulder, grazing soft skin with his teeth.

The stomp of feet and echo of voices on the stairs sends their bodies flying apart. Omar is straightening the bookshelf and Johnny is brushing down his shirt by the time Uncle Nasser comes in. He doesn't seem to notice a thing, just says to Omar, "Go help your aunt in the kitchen, would you? She brought enough food to feed an army. I think she thinks you're going to starve."

Omar scrambles to his feet and goes to the next room over. Through the thin wall they can hear his aunt exclaiming about the tiny kitchen, the falling-apart cupboards, while Omar makes agreeing sounds.

Meanwhile, Uncle Nasser walks around the room, inspecting everything with a studied casualness. He runs his finger along the windowpane and comes up with dust; flicks through The Specials and The Selecter records stacked untidily next to the turntable; and then, crossing his arms and sighing, eyes the mattress.

"So whose room is this anyway, hmm?" he says at last. "My idiot nephew's, or yours?"

Johnny pauses, stuck. They'd agreed beforehand that they'd each take a room in name, if not in reality. This room is meant to be Omar's - but the records are obviously Johnny's, and just as obviously the clothes heaped by the bed are Omar's. The shoes in the corner are half Omar's leather oxfords, half Johnny's dirtied trainers, all in one heap.

Nasser lets him squirm for a minute before waving his hand. "Oh, shut up, don't bother trying to lie," he says. "I don't want to know." 

He sighs and paces back and forth, stopping to turn and wave his finger in Johnny's face. "But you'd better get your damn stories straight before my brother visits here. And you're both bloody fools, you know that, don't you?"

"Alright," Johnny says. But then he grins. He can't help it. It's not exactly the warmest welcome, but from Uncle Nasser - it'll do.

The clatter of dishes and pans in the kitchen has died down a little, and Omar pokes his head around the door again. "Dinner's almost ready." As Uncle Nasser shuffles into the kitchen, Omar waits, looking at Johnny suspiciously. "What's my uncle been saying to you?"

"Nothing much." Johnny levers himself up and off the mattress in one easy movement. "Just admiring our house." The doorway's wide enough for both of them, but he presses in close and cops a feel as he squeezes past anyway.

Not bad, for a first day. 

The next Sunday, Omar's father visits for the first time. It's a quiet day at the laundrette so while Omar's driving over to pick up Mr Ali from home, Johnny goes upstairs and tidies the flat. He throws a knitted blanket over the threadbare sofa, straightens the row of shoes by the door, and stacks dirtied glasses and plates in the kitchen sink.

Unlike his brother, Hussein Ali doesn't check for dust or inspect the state of their shelves. He doesn't seem interested in the flat at all, to be honest, barely glancing at their rooms before tottering to rest on the sofa. Mr Ali's been unwell for a long time, but a bout in hospital six months ago seemed to wring everything out of him. Uncle Nasser talks about hiring him a nurse but he won't hear of it; instead Omar and his Auntie alternate visiting every day. 

Omar talks on brightly about their business and the new flat while Johnny washes up dishes in the kitchen and tries not to eavesdrop, until a pause in the conversation catches his attention. 

"Enough, Omar. You've had your fun, I can see that," Mr Ali says, in the weary voice of someone who's said it all before. "But haven't you had enough with playing at - at all _this_?" Johnny doesn't have to see him to picture him waving his hand at the shabby walls and furnishings, while the teacups rattle in their saucers at every passing truck. 

"But everything's going so well right now," Omar says, still sounding upbeat, if strained. "The laundrettes are so busy we've had to hire some help. Next I'm taking over the carwash, and then Uncle says-"

"The carwash. The laundrette." Mr Ali sighs. "I ask you what you're doing with your life, and you talk to me about my brother's muck. What about your education, Omar? Your future? You said you were going to go back to college."

Johnny waits for Omar to deny it, and with a chill hears him say instead, "Papa. I only said I was thinking about it."

"Then think faster, you stupid boy," Mr Ali says, sounding more like his old self for a moment. His voice softens. "I'm old, Omar. I want to see you settled before my insides turn to pickles. Stop playing at your bastard uncle's game and go back to school. Marry a nice girl and give me some grandchildren. You want that, don't you?"

Johnny finds himself holding his breath. Even the traffic noise from the road seems to fade away.

"Of course I do," Omar says at last, and that's enough for Johnny. He doesn't have to keep listening to this.

So he puts down the saucepan he's been scrubbing and wipes off his hands on a tea towel, then slips out the door and down the stairs to the laundrette. Let them talk. There's work to be done - there always is. 

Later Omar drives his father home. He finds Johnny in the laundrette after, sweeping and closing up shop for the night. There's no point staying open late on Sundays so they usually close at five or six.

"My father wanted to say goodbye, but you'd already gone," Omar says, car keys dangling from his hand.

The hint of accusation in his voice makes Johnny want to throw things. He's had a lot of time to think over the words he heard upstairs, and he's in no mood to play along. He deliberately plasters on a fake smile, saying, "Sorry." He gestures with his broom at the silent rows of washers and dryers. "I was busy here. Playing." His smile grows wider on the word, until his teeth are showing. 

"So you heard him," Omar says. 

"Yeah, I heard him. Heard both of you."

"Are you angry with me?" Omar laughs, and when Johnny doesn't, becomes exasperated instead. "Johnny, what did you honestly expect me to say to him? That we're together?" 

"No," Johnny says, though part of him says _yes, and also_.

"Then what is it?" 

"Look, I'm not saying I want to do this forever. But this isn't just a game to me either," Johnny says. He clenches his hands around the broom. "I ain't in this to just _have some fun_ until I go back to school or find a wife."

"But you think I am?" Omar shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Did you tell your dad you're going back to college?" Johnny says.

"I mean, I'm the one who said we should move in together!"

"Answer the fucking question, Omar."

"Alright, fine." He flushes a little. "Yes, I did tell him that."

"And is it true?" When Omar doesn't reply, he raises his voice. "Omar, is it true?"

When Omar says nothing, not looking away but not saying a word, Johnny flings the broom to the floor with a clatter and turns away. His throat is so tight that he's not sure he could speak, even if he wanted to. 

"Where are you going? Johnny-"

He lets the door slam behind him, not bothering to look back. He walks fast, heading down dark but familiar streets with sure feet. Already there's a bite to the night air - it's cold enough that once the initial anger burns off, he regrets not picking up his jacket as he left. But as the cold seeps in, his thoughts get clearer too.

Omar catches up just as he's starting to shiver. For a few streets they don't say anything. They just walk, their strides falling into rhythm without any apparent effort. 

"You should've brought your jacket," Omar says, observant as ever.

"Shut up," Johnny says, as he shoves his hands into his pockets. "You should have brought it for me." But he doesn't shrug off the arm that Omar throws around his shoulders, or the warmth of Omar's body next to his. 

At the end of the block, Omar nudges him with his hip and they turn right. Another two blocks and a left. He's pretty sure now where Omar's leading him though he doesn't know why. Sure enough, they come to a stop near their old school.

"You probably don't remember now, it's been years," Omar says, as though they're picking up a conversation they'd just left off, "but it was right here that we stopped talking. You walked past me like you didn't even know my name. 

"It was the day after my father and I saw you in the march. I was still hoping I'd been mistaken, that it wasn't you I'd seen, but someone who just looked like you. Except I wasn't wrong. There you were, with all your new friends," Omar's mouth twists up into a rueful smile, "and it was your turn to pretend you hadn't seen me."

"Omar," Johnny says, sick to his stomach. The thing is that he does remember, down to the split second, when he'd decided to look away and keep walking, laughing too loudly at a joke from Moose. "I'm sorry-"

"I'm not saying this to make you say 'sorry' again," Omar interrupts, looking him dead in the eye. "I know you are. I'm telling you what it was like for me. 

"I didn't want to see you ever again that day, and the next day, and the next day. Until time passed and I saw you in the street for the first time in years, and I wasn't angry anymore." He laughs."I thought maybe you'd punch my lights out. Or let your friends do it. But I didn't care. I just wanted to try again. Even if it didn't work out, at least I'd know."

"So what are you saying?" Johnny hates how rough his voice sounds. 

"I should have told you I was thinking about college. I don't know what I want to do yet, but I still should have told you before I told Papa. I'm sorry," Omar says. He reaches out, his hand warm against the side of Johnny's neck, his thumb stroking down the line of his jaw. "And I'm sorry we have to pretend, to Papa, to everyone. Just - don't give up on me. This isn't a game for me either. It never was."

"I know." Johnny turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the palm of Omar's hand. "I know it's not." 

After a moment Omar takes his hand again and tugs him away. He leads him around the corner, to a place where the school fence is low enough that a couple of kids skiving off from class might be able to scramble up, and over, and away; and then to the park across the road, where a rusty swingset and a slide stand vacant in the dark. 

"D'you remember this place?" Omar says, turning so his breath huffs warm on Johnny's ear.

"Nah." He elbows Omar gently. "Yeah, of course I do." They used to hang out here after school, to smoke and kick a ball around, and eventually it was where they'd first kissed, easy as falling, before everything got messed up.

"They cut down our tree," Omar says, regretful, thinking of the same thing. "That's a shame. I wanted to recreate the moment."

"We can make do," Johnny says. He backs Omar up against the ladder to the slide and kisses him - softly at first, then deeper, until they're both shaking a little from holding back, Omar grinding against his thigh and making soft noises into his mouth. 

"You're getting good at this," Omar says at last, when he can catch his breath.

"I've been practising," Johnny says, resting his forehead on Omar's shoulder. "Let's go home."

They hold hands as they go, walking fast because of the cold, because of the heat in their blood. It's dark and the streets are empty, but they're holding hands and it feels like they're saying something out loud. 

Halfway home it starts to rain and they break into a run. There's a ceiling leak in the kitchen that must be dripping by now, Johnny remembers as they cross another street, every step bringing them closer to home. They'll have to get a bucket under it soon as they walk in the door.

It's okay. They'll fix it. He's sure they will - they always do.


End file.
